If I Fall, Will You Catch Me?
by Shannon A. Bernstein
Summary: Italy makes the sickening discovery that he's in a lot of financial trouble, but he's afraid to tell Germany, who has come to visit. He's in love with Germany and fears Germany will be angry with him. Inspired by the current Eurozone crisis. Romantic fluff oneshot. Rated T for some language.


**Hey, I have been keeping up occasionally with the Eurozone crisis that's going on, so I wrote this oneshot inspired by those events. It is NOT meant to be a 100% accurate representation of current events by any means, but just my take on them. And my historical references are not meant to be accurate either - they're just meant to be romantic fluff. Hope you enjoy!**

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"That will be four euros seventy-nine," the man behind the counter said.

Italy smiled, reached into his pocket, and withdrew his wallet. Flipping it open, he reached for the credit card decorated in the green, red, and white stripes of his flag and passed it to the cashier. The man ran it through the card swipe. Italy watched his face darken. "Hmm," he said and shook his head a little. The man tried it again. "It says 'declined,' sir," he told Italy.

"O-oh, it does?" Italy said, surprised. That had never happened before! Oh, well. Maybe there was something wrong with the card. Or at least that's what he told himself as worry grew in the pit of his stomach as though he had just swallowed a brick. He reached for another card and handed it to the cashier, this time with slightly trembling fingers.

The man swiped it once. As he swiped it again, Italy swallowed hard. "This one is saying the same thing."

"I…I should have some cash on me…" Italy thrust his hand into his right pocket and fished around in it, waiting for his fingertips to brush a coin or a worn piece of paper. Nothing. He stuck his hand into his left pocket and repeated the process. His pockets were empty. No, it couldn't be! Frantically, he turned both pockets inside out and stared at them before stuffing them back into his pants. He slipped both hands into his back pockets. _Niente._ Tears brimmed in his eyes. Panicked, he whipped around and looked across the coffee shop, as if a solution would pop out of the ground and present itself to him. As it just so happened, this time, it practically did.

Germany pushed open the door and smiled as he locked eyes with his friend. Italy blinked back his tears and breathed a shaky sigh of relief. "G-Germany! I hate to ask you this, but…" Italy dropped his eyes to the ground. He couldn't tell Germany he was out of money, could he? But how else was he going to pay for his latté and little pastry? Refusing to gaze into those ice-blue eyes, he continued, "…I-I think I grabbed the wrong credit card. I cancelled this one. I must have left the new one at home. Could you maybe…"

"Of course, Italy!" Germany said and placed a hand on his shoulder, patting it briefly before retrieving his wallet. He held out a monochromatic credit card to the cashier. "I will get his, and also a black coffee for me."

Italy smiled. "Thanks, Germany. I'll have to pay you back for that."

The blonde shook his head. "That? Don't worry about that. It was nothing. But you are welcome. Want to sit and talk for a while?"

Nodding, Italy followed Germany happily to a table after they picked up their coffee. He felt the familiar quickening of his heartbeat as he sat across from the taller man. Would Germany never realize how he felt about him? He had been in love with him ever since the beginning of World War II, when Germany had repeatedly come to his rescue despite the blonde's heavy sighs and rolling eyes. But Italy was still too afraid to say anything – afraid that the feelings would not be returned. "Germany, how are you? How rude of me. I haven't even asked yet!"

Germany laughed and traced the rim of his coffee cup's handle. "I don't mind." Then, the smile vanished from his face. He shook his head and ran his fingers through his slicked-back hair. "Ah, I am all right, I guess. But Greece is giving me a headache. The fool has no idea what to do with his money! Soon he will have no money left. And he may bring the whole damn Eurozone down with him! Who has to clean up after his mess? _I do!_" Sighing, he sipped at his coffee. The incessant pounding of Italy's heart only increased at Germany's words. Staring down at his half-eaten pastry, he suddenly felt sick. Could that be _him_ in another few short months or years? "Oh, but enough of all that talk. It is tiring. How are you, Italy?"

Nervous, Italy stammered out a reply: "Oh, me? I'm just fine. I'm great. Everything's wonderful here!" He felt his cheeks grow hot with the weight of the lie he had just told his closest friend, so he put on his most convincing smile to hide the reality of it all. "What are you doing here, Germany?"

Germany's face was harsh and serious. Italy remembered that look; the tall blonde had worn it when he used to wake Italy early in the morning for training before and during World War II. Back then, Italy had groaned and resisted. But now, he would love nothing more than to see that face every morning again. "I just had to get away from it all," Germany said. "France just got a new boss to replace that Sarkozy fellow. And then Greece. And Spain may be in trouble as well. Everyone is up in arms. It was too much. So I came here." Finally, the somber veil on Germany's face broke. His cold eyes brightened as he said, "It is always so beautiful and peaceful here. I apologize, maybe I should have asked before I just showed up but…"

"Oh, no, you can come any time you want, Germany!" Italy interrupted eagerly – perhaps a little too eagerly. He silently admonished himself. Half of him desperately wanted his friend to know how he felt; the other half _never_ wanted Germany to know.

Setting his empty cup of coffee back onto its saucer, Germany said, "Would you like to go out for dinner with me tonight?"

"Of course," Italy replied, making sure to sound much more calm than he had a moment ago.

"The place just down the street from here looked good. How about there, at…seven?"

Italy's heart started to hammer against his chest with such violence that he was sure Germany could hear its pulse. He knew exactly the place the blonde was talking about…and it was incredibly good, but also incredibly expensive! But he couldn't refuse. Germany knew his love of fine food too well to see right through any excuse Italy could come up with. "Okay, that sounds good. I'll see you then," he said stiffly and quietly.

They both stood. For the first time that day, Italy's eyes ran over Germany. He was wearing loose-fitting pants in an army-green color, complete with roomy pockets – the same kind he had grown accustomed to wearing during the war and apparently liked so much he had never given them up as the years wore on. His tight solid black t-shirt accented his muscles. Was Germany _trying_ to taunt him or something? No, of course not – because Germany didn't know.

When they had left the coffee shop and parted ways, Italy's steps took him back to his house. He opened his laptop and typed in the address of his credit card's webpage. He had to know how bad the damage was. Username and password? Italy racked his brain and could not remember. It had been so long since he had even visited the account. He was always having too much fun painting or cooking or just chatting with people in the streets of Rome to think of such things. He had the password sent to his e-mail and opened the account. For a moment, he squeezed his eyes shut as his arrow hovered over the "balances" option, afraid to see the numbers on his screen. But he pried his eyes open and clicked, his breathing ragged, his heart still racing.

"My God," he thought aloud. He had hit credit limit on both his cards. Interest had piled up for months or maybe years like cars during rush-hour traffic in downtown Rome. Italy could not decide whether he wanted to scream or cry.

Just then, he felt hot breath on his neck. The unmistakable irritated voice filled his ears: "Italy, what site are you goofing off now?" Romano said as he glanced over his brother's shoulder at the computer. "Are you poking Germany on Facebook again? Or is it more stupid videos of cats?"

In a moment of panic, Italy slammed the laptop shut. Its firm _clap!_ sounded throughout the room. _My brother doesn't know,_ he thought, horrified.

"Hey, what is it you don't want me to see?" Romano demanded. He grabbed at the laptop. Italy held it away from his brother, but Romano pried the laptop easily from his hands and opened it again, peering into its lit screen. Italy watched his brother's eyes widen. Romano blinked, looked quickly away, and looked again. "Damnit, look what you've done to yourself, you idiot!" he cried incredulously. "Look what you've done to _us!" _

"Wh-what _I've_ done?" Italy said, his voice already starting to crack. "It's your money, too…"

"Oh, is it?" Romano yelled. "I'm not even a fucking country! You're the one who's in control. You're the one who's supposed to take care of all this!" His voice seemed to rise with every word he spoke, his face flushed deep red in anger. He aimed his index finger accusingly in Italy's face and shook it.

A tear slid down Italy's cheek. "Please don't yell at me, Romano…"

"Maybe I yell at you when I shouldn't sometimes, but this time, you deserve it," Romano said and walked away from his brother, shaking his head in disbelief. "Jesus fucking Christ," he muttered to himself as he opened the front door. "I need some air."

Once his brother had shut the door behind him, Italy curled up on the couch and tried to sniffle back his tears. "Calm down, calm down," he told himself at a whisper. He was seeing Germany soon. He couldn't face his best friend red-faced and teary-eyed. Germany would surely ask what was wrong, and now that he was on the verge of breaking down already, Italy just might tell the truth. No. Germany couldn't know. He would think he was a fool, just as he thought Greece was a fool, and then how could the blonde ever love him? He would perhaps shout at him, just as Romano had shouted at him. If nothing else, spending the evening with Germany would make him feel better. It always did. Thinking about the evening ahead was enough to make the tears stop in less than a minute.

Italy dressed in his favorite blue suit and headed for the door. Romano shot him a look of disbelief. "Where are you going all dressed up?" he asked.

"Out to dinner with Germany," Italy said.

Romano rolled his eyes. "You're going to _spend money_ on dinner…and with the potato bastard? Unbelievable." But Italy shrugged and left anyway.

When Italy saw Germany waiting for him outside the restaurant, he felt as though his heart had leapt into his throat. The blonde had abandoned his casual clothes in favor of a crisp suit entirely in black, from the jacket to the shirt to the pants. Realizing he hadn't hugged Germany yet, Italy ran toward his friend and flung his arms around him. "Germany! I've missed you!" he said as he felt the muscled pair of arms wrap around him in return.

Germany chuckled. "I saw you just a few hours ago."

"No, I mean…before that," Italy said. "I didn't get a chance to tell you earlier." He had not seen Germany for nearly four months now. Italy was grateful he and his friend made it a point to visit each other at least every few months. But the weeks that separated him from the man he loved seemed to stretch on endlessly until they became nearly unbearable. This time, the building Eurozone troubles had kept Germany busy as he traveled to meet with the other countries – France, England, America. War had been terrifying for Italy, and at the time, he had hated it. But now, there were times he almost longed for those days again so he could see Germany every day again.

"Oh, _ja_, I missed you too, Italy," Germany said. They took their seats in the restaurant. Italy stared across at the blonde, reacquainting his eyes with the lines of the other man's face. The low lights highlighted Germany's strong masculine jawbones. In spite of himself, Italy felt a smile overtake his face, powerful and unstoppable. The waiter placed hot, fresh bread before them, set out a little dish filled with herbs, and poured olive oil into it. Italy took a deep breath and inhaled the beautiful aroma, knowing instantly that the bread was homemade and the olive oil was the finest extra-virgin. He reached for a piece of bread just as Germany did. He saw the other man's hand hovering over the basket. But Italy didn't hesitate. Glancing purposefully away as if he were staring into space, Italy let his fingers brush Germany's for a moment before recoiling his hand.

"Sorry," he said as he met the pair of blue eyes with his brown ones. He tried hard not to laugh. Italy dipped his slice of bread in the olive oil and bit into it eagerly as the waiter returned to pour their wine.

Germany and Italy talked for two hours as if they had seen each other four days ago rather than four months ago. That was always how it was with them – and that was what made their time apart bearable to Italy. "Would either of you care for any dessert?" a voice interrupted their conversation.

"No, I'm good," Italy said quickly. Dinner had already been expensive enough. Dessert would add at least ten euros – which he clearly couldn't afford to spend right now.

Germany grunted a little in disbelief and peered at Italy with questioning eyes. "Really, Italy? You don't want any tiramisu or something?"

"No, I'm…full," Italy lied. He bit his lip and twiddled his thumbs under the table. He hated lying to Germany.

"You, full? _Mein Gott,_ the world is ending!" Germany said, his tone light and playful, as he nudged Italy gently in the arm with his elbow.

"_S-si,_" Italy said without returning his friend's touch of humor.

Germany reached across the table and touched Italy's arm lightly, the smile washing away from his eyes in the same way that a wave washes away the undisturbed sands of the beach. "Something is wrong, Italy. I can tell. What is it? You can tell me."

Something about that touch, that voice, those eyes – the somber concern with which those eyes regarded him – cracked Italy's resolve in the ephemeral second before the words poured from his lips: "Germany, I shouldn't – I can't pay for dessert," Italy admitted. "I-I don't even know how I'm going to pay for dinner." The first tears were already rolling down his cheeks. He wiped them away with the back of his hand and lowered his head until his chin nearly touched his chest, ashamed to meet Germany's eyes with his own.

"I was going to pay for it," Germany said. "But why? What do you mean, Italy?" He reached out and took Italy's chin in his cupped right hand and lifted it until their faces were level.

Italy felt his chin quiver against the blonde's hand. "I'm running out of money, Germany, and I don't know why. I don't know what happened." He pushed Germany's hand away from his face and dropped his eyes to the table again, waiting for the admonishing words and cold glances to follow as sobs caught in his throat. Germany had not tried to hide his frustration at Italy's incompetence in the past – especially early in the war – so why should now be any different? Italy braced himself for the tones of Germany's voice to sharpen, for his accent to thicken and deepen…

But it didn't. Through blurry eyes, Italy could see the lines of Germany's lips pressed tightly together, eyebrows furrowed slightly, but those eyes like twin chips of ice held only sympathy. "Italy…" Germany started to say.

"Just get it over with!" Italy cried.

"_Was?" _

"You're going to yell at me, aren't you? You're going to yell at me, just like Romano did. You're going to say I'm a fool, like Greece…so please, just get it over with…" Italy was trembling all over, sobbing so heavily he could barely speak.

"_Nein, _I'm not," Germany said firmly. He took Italy's hand. Italy flinched a little in surprise.

"You're not mad?"

"I could not say I'm _happy_ about it but…" Germany's words trailed off. He glanced in the other direction. The waiter stood frozen to the spot in which he stood, gawking at the two of them as tears dripped from the end of Italy's nose. "Check, please," Germany said gruffly and waved the man away with his free hand before turning back toward Italy. "But Italy, everything will be all right. I will take care of you. I always have. I always will. You haven't forgotten…" Germany withdrew a collection of papers folded into fourths from his jacket pocket, "…this, have you?" He pushed the papers across the table toward Italy.

With quivering fingers, Italy unfolded the pages. They were worn and crumpled, as though they had been smashed into a ball, thrown away, and retrieved again before being passed through endless pairs of hands. A few corners were dog-eared. The edges were notched and torn. The pages held a vaguely yellow tint and felt delicate in Italy's hands. As he scanned the lines of smudged ink, he recognized the large, messy scrawl of a signature at the bottom as his own. And beside it was a tidier signature, its letters pointed and spiky. Italy pushed the page in his hands to the back of the small stack and scrutinized the one that was now at the top. No. It couldn't be. Italy's tears flowed even more freely at the sight of those letters, unmistakable even though they had been distorted by the slow march of time as it descended on the rumpled pages. He placed a hand over his eyes to stop Germany from seeing just how hard he was crying, but the tears ran from under his palm and streaked his face. "_P-patto d'Acciaio," _Italy said at a whisper.

"Yes, the Pact of Steel," Germany said slowly and pulled Italy's hand away from his face. He now held both the smaller man's hands in his own. "It says I will rescue you no matter what sort of trouble you get into." He offered Italy a strained smile.

Italy sniffled. "But that was so long ago. Why do you still have that? It doesn't even matter anymore."

Germany pulled the left side of his jacket away from his body to show Italy its inner lining. He patted the small pocket inside the jacket. "I keep it right here to remind myself that I am still here for you – even though I have lost some of the pages." At these words, Italy finally smiled, though the way the corners of his mouth turned faintly upward was barely reminiscent of the joyful grins he gave out to friends and strangers alike on a daily basis. "Why don't I walk you home now?" Germany added as he slid several crisp new euro bills into the leather envelope the waiter had placed on the table. He set a few more bills plus a small handful of bright coins on the table.

Suddenly, Italy became conscious of fifty pairs of eyes watching him cry; fifty pairs of ears listening to his whimpers and sobs. "Th-they're all staring, aren't they?"

"_Ja_, just a little bit," Germany said solemnly. "Now come on. Let's get you home." They stepped into the dark night air, which felt crisp and refreshing. No traces of the muggy afternoon loomed. Italy held Germany's arm as they walked, clinging to it desperately as if his friend would vanish as easily as the humid day had vanished, giving way to evening. Though the residents of Rome still ambled to and from restaurants and bakeries and friends' homes, chatting pleasantly as they made their way, neither Germany nor Italy said a word. _Germany will take care of me. Everything will be all right_, Italy thought, his tears drying and cooling on his face.

It was Germany who spoke first: "We can still take care of this, Italy. You are not so bad off as Greece. It can be fixed if you make some changes soon."

"But what if we can't?" Italy said. "If I fall, will you catch me?"

"_Ja,_ of course I will."

Italy had never seen such a tender smile grace the blonde's handsome, angular face. Without thinking, he blurted, "Oh, Germany, I love you." Stunned at the sound of his own words, he gasped and added hurriedly, "I mean – what I meant was –"

"I know you do," Germany said, silencing Italy before he could finish. "And I love you too, Italy."

"Wh-what…" Italy had heard Germany, but the words didn't register in his mind. It was as if he had heard those words whispered to him in a dream that he had just woken from, and now he searched the recesses of his mind, trying to separate dream from reality.

"_Ti amo, Italia,_" Germany said and bent down toward Italy, closing the distance between them until their lips met. With his left hand, he held Italy's hip, while his right wound around the smaller man's back. The blonde's lips pressed firmly and eagerly against Italy's, as if in that one kiss, Germany could absolve the long war-ridden years they had looked into each other's eyes every day without kissing. Italy touched his tongue lightly to the sealed pair of lips against his own, which fell open as if he had flipped a magic switch. He wound his fingers through Germany's hair, pulling the taller man's face closer toward his as the tips of their tongues brushed. Italy's tongue flicked against the roof of Germany's mouth as he tried to learn its every ridge and crease. With a deep, satisfied sigh, the taller man pulled away. He cupped Italy's chin in his hand as he gazed into the pair of copper-tinted eyes.

A genuine smile surfaced to Italy's lips as though it were a buoyant object held too long underwater; now that the pressure on it had vanished, it rose naturally, as though it had a mind all its own. He took Germany's hand and threaded their fingers together. The two headed for Italy's home, no more words passing between them. They didn't need any words right now. That kiss had spoken more clearly than either of them could have. With a smile, Germany opened the front door and held it open for Italy. They stepped inside.

Romano jerked his head up from the book he was bent over. "Oh, look, it's the potato bastard."

"Good to see you too, Romano," Germany shot back sarcastically.

"_Fratello!_" Italy tried to admonish his brother, but his tone came out bright and joyful all the same. "You ought to be nice to the man who is bailing us out."

"Bailing _us_ out?" Romano repeated, rolling his eyes. "You mean bailing _you_ out, idiot."

Germany chuckled softly. Italy knew his brother amused the blonde. "Okay, then," Germany said, holding his hands up defensively. "You could at least be nice to…" he paused and locked eyes with Italy, and they both smiled, "…to your brother's boyfriend."

A little noise escaped Italy's lips that mixed shock and delight.

"You have got to be kidding me," Romano said before he tossed his book down and retreated up the stairs. He mumbled a string of indistinct Italian words as he hauled himself up the steps.

"So, should we eat dinner together tomorrow, too?" Germany said.

"_Si!_" Italy replied. "We can go out to…" He halted mid-sentence. Germany shot Italy a reprimanding glance. "I mean, I can make dinner here!"

"Ah, that sounds great. I will bring the wine."

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**Thanks for reading and please review!**

**This is also the first non-AU I've ever attempted writing. Hope I did okay with it!**

**Since the countries have been around for hundreds of years, I got the idea that Germany and Italy would only be a few years older in current times than they were in World War II in the actual Axis Powers Hetalia series.**


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